Read Online At Risk by Judith E. French - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Judith E. French
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these,” she said, holding up the torn garment. “$14.99. Victoria’s Secret.”
“You sure? They look like Wal-Mart’s 99¢ special to me.” He grinned at her, exposing even white teeth and a dimple in one stubbly cheek. “I’ll buy you a dozen pairs, if you want.”
Liz shook her head. “Don’t waste your charm on me. No strings.”
“I didn’t think—”
Her eyes narrowed. “You said it yourself. We only go around once. Enjoy it while you can.”
“You have changed.”
“I’m not seventeen anymore.”
“Lizzy, about what happened with your sister—”
“That’s over. It happened a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry. I never wanted to—”
She held up her hands, palms out. “We’re not going to have this conversation. You did me a favor. Subject closed.” Her features brightened. “But you’re welcome to come in for that coffee—better yet, a beer. And I still make a mean grilled cheese and tomato sandwich.”
“Hmm. Tomato soup go with the offer?” How many afternoons had they spent alone in her house? Her dad didn’t always pay his light or phone bill, but he kept the cupboards stocked with canned goods. One thing about Donald Clarke—no matter how drunk he got, he never let his girls go hungry.
She chuckled. “Tomato soup and oyster crackers.”
“It’s a deal.” Jack stepped into his jeans and zipped them up. “You’re a hell of a woman, Lizzy Clarke. Kent County just hasn’t been the same without you.”
On Saturday afternoon, the Game Master went to
the sophomore’s
funeral. It was a rare treat, one he didn’t usually allow himself. It was such a false cliché—the serial murderer always attends services for the dead. The fools. What did the authorities know of him and his kind?
He saw them in the crowd, some in uniform, others poorly disguised as grieving friends or merely curious onlookers. A few faces he recognized, but he didn’t have to know them by name to label them—like they would pin labels on him, if they could catch him.
The thought was amusing, and he almost made the mistake of smiling. That wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all. He must look properly sorrowful, living the lie that this school of poor fish was enacting—pretending that the dead thing in the box was worth shedding tears over.
It was nothing now, worse than nothing.
The sophomore
had provided a little amusement, a brief relief from monotony. The Game Master could still taste her blood on his tongue.
He glanced at his watch, wondering how long this farce would go on. He had business to attend to, files to update. A sense of uncertainty loomed. This was always a dangerous period. Flushed with the excitement of victory, he had to set up the board for the next match. He couldn’t make the same moves twice, and he needed to take great care not to frighten the professor so badly that she ran away.
She had to die. Twice before, he’d selected women and then changed his mind, letting them live without their ever knowing of his interest. The professor would have no such luck. She was already too deeply into the game to survive. She was his, and she was special. Smart. Tough. The greatest prize yet. He’d waited so long for her, and his reward would be all the sweeter when he added her to his collection.
He closed his eyes, taking advantage of the strains of funeral music that echoed through the church. For an instant,
the hitchhiker
came to mind. So long ago, and he could remember her face as if it were yesterday.
It had been raining that night, and he was driving down from Delaware City along Route 9. It was late, close to two in the morning, and he hadn’t seen a car on the road for the last ten minutes. He was driving fast. He liked speed, the sight of wet blacktop flashing past, the rhythmic swish of the wipers, and the exhilarating gusts of wind and rain hitting the car.
Occasionally, he’d catch glimpses of the bay on his left. There was a riptide. Nothing beat being on the
“You sure? They look like Wal-Mart’s 99¢ special to me.” He grinned at her, exposing even white teeth and a dimple in one stubbly cheek. “I’ll buy you a dozen pairs, if you want.”
Liz shook her head. “Don’t waste your charm on me. No strings.”
“I didn’t think—”
Her eyes narrowed. “You said it yourself. We only go around once. Enjoy it while you can.”
“You have changed.”
“I’m not seventeen anymore.”
“Lizzy, about what happened with your sister—”
“That’s over. It happened a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry. I never wanted to—”
She held up her hands, palms out. “We’re not going to have this conversation. You did me a favor. Subject closed.” Her features brightened. “But you’re welcome to come in for that coffee—better yet, a beer. And I still make a mean grilled cheese and tomato sandwich.”
“Hmm. Tomato soup go with the offer?” How many afternoons had they spent alone in her house? Her dad didn’t always pay his light or phone bill, but he kept the cupboards stocked with canned goods. One thing about Donald Clarke—no matter how drunk he got, he never let his girls go hungry.
She chuckled. “Tomato soup and oyster crackers.”
“It’s a deal.” Jack stepped into his jeans and zipped them up. “You’re a hell of a woman, Lizzy Clarke. Kent County just hasn’t been the same without you.”
On Saturday afternoon, the Game Master went to
the sophomore’s
funeral. It was a rare treat, one he didn’t usually allow himself. It was such a false cliché—the serial murderer always attends services for the dead. The fools. What did the authorities know of him and his kind?
He saw them in the crowd, some in uniform, others poorly disguised as grieving friends or merely curious onlookers. A few faces he recognized, but he didn’t have to know them by name to label them—like they would pin labels on him, if they could catch him.
The thought was amusing, and he almost made the mistake of smiling. That wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all. He must look properly sorrowful, living the lie that this school of poor fish was enacting—pretending that the dead thing in the box was worth shedding tears over.
It was nothing now, worse than nothing.
The sophomore
had provided a little amusement, a brief relief from monotony. The Game Master could still taste her blood on his tongue.
He glanced at his watch, wondering how long this farce would go on. He had business to attend to, files to update. A sense of uncertainty loomed. This was always a dangerous period. Flushed with the excitement of victory, he had to set up the board for the next match. He couldn’t make the same moves twice, and he needed to take great care not to frighten the professor so badly that she ran away.
She had to die. Twice before, he’d selected women and then changed his mind, letting them live without their ever knowing of his interest. The professor would have no such luck. She was already too deeply into the game to survive. She was his, and she was special. Smart. Tough. The greatest prize yet. He’d waited so long for her, and his reward would be all the sweeter when he added her to his collection.
He closed his eyes, taking advantage of the strains of funeral music that echoed through the church. For an instant,
the hitchhiker
came to mind. So long ago, and he could remember her face as if it were yesterday.
It had been raining that night, and he was driving down from Delaware City along Route 9. It was late, close to two in the morning, and he hadn’t seen a car on the road for the last ten minutes. He was driving fast. He liked speed, the sight of wet blacktop flashing past, the rhythmic swish of the wipers, and the exhilarating gusts of wind and rain hitting the car.
Occasionally, he’d catch glimpses of the bay on his left. There was a riptide. Nothing beat being on the
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